


The Cipher File

by Voluntary_Insanity



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, spy AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-20 05:41:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10656081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Voluntary_Insanity/pseuds/Voluntary_Insanity
Summary: After an agent goes missing trying gather intelligence on the Cipher Organization, Gravity Falls' Supernatural Investigation Agency sends in the only person capable of tracking him down: his estranged twin brother.Based on agent-jaselin's Spy AU on Tumblr (specifically, this post: http://agent-jaselin.tumblr.com/post/143897334875/thinking-about-a-spy-auc).





	1. In Which a Spy Gets More Than He Bargained For

**Author's Note:**

> Just as a note: for the purposes of this AU (again, check out agent-jaselin's Tumblr for details) the Stan twins and McGucket are aged down to around 30, and the younger cast members (read: Dipper and Mabel) to at least 20.  
> And yes, I am Fiddauthor trash. Not the main focus of the story, but present nonetheless.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford tries to gather intelligence on the Cipher Organization, but the presence of a certain pair of twins complicates his mission.

This was  _not_  how he had wanted to spend his evening. In the noisy, dirty city that reminded him just a bit too much of his hometown. Traversing the smoky, garish and brightly colored casino in search of that white-haired little skunk. He would much rather be home, his nose buried in a book, furiously writing away in his journal, only breaking here and there for dinner, or to help put Tate to bed.

But Stanford Pines didn't have much of a say in the matter. He adjusted his glasses as he stepped under the large baby-blue pentagram ( _an odd color choice_ , he noted), and into Gleeful's casino.

Ford pointedly weaved in and out of the throngs of people crowded around various tables and machines. Among the crowds of boisterous gamblers and onlookers, he felt grossly out of place. This entire scene was more...  _Stanley_.

He felt a slight pang in his stomach at the thought of his twin. Ford had so desperately wanted support on this mission, and in his current situation, he could think of no one better to take the weight off his shoulders than Stan. The smooth, overconfident con-man was the perfect foil to Ford's own introversion and paranoia.

But the organization had made it clear they weren't interested, and Ford found himself going to face the very thing he had spent so long running from, alone.

 _It's better this way_ , he admonished himself.  _Anyone else is just a liability. Just another mind for Him to manipulate_. Only by his previous dealings with that wretched demon had Ford himself qualified for the mission. That, and of course...

Almost unconsciously, Stanford lightly tapped the side of his head. A clang rung in his ears, soft, but reassuring. He smiled inwardly, comforted by the seemingly crude, but undoubtedly effective mechanism his partner had put in place. In the chance that he came across the dream demon (which Ford had begun to accept as a certainty), Fidds would be protecting him. His mind was safe, and his body was safe. The demon may still have been able to haunt his dreams (and he often did), but he could never again truly enter his mind, his body.

Ford snapped out of his musings as he heard a commotion across the room. A scuffle had broken out at one of the tables; hearing shouts in the fray, he shuffled closer, careful to keep some distance. Among the indistinguishable mumblings of the gathered crowd, a gruff man’s voice rang out.

“You got beef with my boss, tough guy? Why don’t you tell him yourself!” A burly man with untamed red hair and ghostly white eyes (how the man saw anything more than two feet in front of him was well beyond Ford) shot up from the crowd. Ford didn’t immediately recognize the man, presuming “Ghost Eyes” to be a new lackey of the casino owner, and judging from the scars and tattoos that littered his arms, one he had picked up from his recent trip to prison.

 _The little skunk always did attract the worse types_ , he mused, adjusting his glasses as he saw Ghost Eyes’ arm rise above the crowd, holding up a young, slender man with a mess of brown hair, by the back of his navy jacket, kicking and trying his best to free himself.

“C’mon, let me go, man!” His voice cracked with frustration and anger.

The thug, clearly unimpressed with the young man’s struggle, stalked towards the back of the room, the lanky stranger in tow.

“Sorry, but the boss has been waiting an eternity to have a little chat with you. And believe me, you don’t wanna keep him waiting.” Ford slunk into the crowd, careful to not appear too invested in the exchange before him.

He felt some semblance of pity for the young man, knowing full well the way the casino owner treated his enemies. Any other night, he would have taken the thug head on and gotten them both out of there, but tonight, he needed information. He needed to get to Gleeful. And this kid could very well be his ticket.

As he took note of the thug’s path, another voice rang out from the crowd, this time, a boisterous young woman.

“Hey! You leave him alone!” Streaming out of the crowd like a shooting star, a long-haired woman with a childish face stormed after the thug and the young man, taking on fighting stance.

 _Was this a partner? Girlfriend?_  Ford peered out from the crowd as the girl approached Ghost Eyes. When he saw the young duo side-by-side, however, it hit him clear as day:

 _Siblings. Definitely siblings._  The thug pushed the young woman away with ease as he held the man up out of her reach.

“Sorry dollface,” he said flatly, “don’t think the boss would exactly want you to see this.” The girl shouted in shock as she was grabbed from behind, another thug lifting her by the arms and pulling her away from her brother.

“Don’t worry, kid. Gideon will be seein’ you soon enough.” The girl struggled, reaching out as Ghost Eyes lumbered away, the other youngster in tow.

“Dipper!” She desperately called out.

“Mabel! Hey, let her go!” The young man’s frantic voice faded as the thug carried him away.

Ford felt his stomach lurch just a bit. Whatever these two had done to get on Gideon’s bad side, he did not envy whatever fate awaited them at his hands, knowing the full extent of cruelty the little man was capable of.

He sighed. It wasn’t his problem; he was here for intelligence, not to pull these two out of whatever mess they had caused for themselves. As he set off to follow Ghost Eyes, he felt a pang of guilt, as the girl (Mabel, was it?) continued to struggle ferociously.

“Get your hands off me, you creepy jerk!” She kicked with vigor, but against someone easily twice her size, she wasn’t much of a match. Ford himself was appalled (though not really surprised) at the apathy of the other patrons, ignoring her cries as they went about their business. This place truly did draw in the worst type of people.

Quickly assessing the situation, Ford took note of the door Ghost Eyes had left through; it had a security panel, but he supposed he could bypass that without having to follow an employee through. The young man was already in Gideon’s grasp; he was beyond help for the moment.

The girl needed his help now.

Slinking in and out of the crowds, Ford reached inside his coat, feeling for the appropriate weapon. He didn’t need to kill anyone, not this time. He knew he was about to make more of a scene then he initially wanted, he didn’t need gunfire and blood complicating things.

 _Ah, there it is_ , he grabbed hold of a small tranquilizer gun. Before supplying him with the device, Fiddleford had informed him that the potency of the darts was enough to take down a multi-bear (Ford pitied the poor soul who had to verify that claim). Hopefully this would do the trick.

 _Thunk. THUD._  In one swift motion, Ford had drawn his gun, fired, and watched the tranquilizer take its effect almost instantly, as the thug holding the girl fell flat on his back.

The girl looked down inquisitively for a moment, flashing a slightly unhinged smile as she saw the tranquilizer dart embedded in his neck. She stood tall over the unconscious man.

“He’s resting,” she proclaimed to anyone who cared enough to pay any attention to her. Ford chuckled softly, parting from the crowd to approach her.

“Are you alright?” Ford asked sternly. She took no notice of him at first, as she had already taken to looting the thug’s unconscious body, presumably for weapons.

_She was planning on going after him._

“Ugh, why can’t these weirdos carry something useful?” The girl grumbled, exasperated. She produced a small card from the thug’s coat, and after briefly examining it, stuffed it in her pocket.

“These men hardly need conventional weapons,” Ford chimed. The girl whipped around, a startled and fighting look in her eyes. Noticing the tranquilizer gun still in his hand, she softened, the realization setting in.

“Oh…” The girl rose to meet him, dusting herself off. She gave him a sincere, thanking look before the spark returned to her eyes. “Well, would it kill them to leave some weapons laying around for us normal people?” She joked, but the frustration was clear in her voice.

Ford smiled. He found her quirky energy endearing, reminiscent of Stanley’s boisterous attitude in their younger days.

“I don’t suppose ‘normal people’ are, well, the norm around here,” he replied, checking on the thug to make sure he was still out. “Now, are you hurt at all?”

“Psh, no! Gideon and his dumb thugs would never hurt me. Dipper, on the other hand…” her voice trailed off, clear worry painting her normally cheerful demeanor.

“Your brother?” The girl’s eyes widened, and Ford remembered she had no idea he had been watching from the sidelines. It took her all of two seconds to make the connection.

“Wait a second, you were watching the whole time and didn’t even do anything?” Her voice became frantic, and quite frankly, much louder than Ford would have preferred in their current setting. He raised his hands to quiet her, giving her a panicky look in the process.  
Thankfully for both of them, she took the cue.

“We look too suspicious standing around like this,” Ford lowered his voice. “Follow me.” He lead her away from the body, weaving in and out of the crowd as before.

“Mabel, was it? How exactly did you manage to get on Gleeful’s bad side?” Ford asked pointedly as he maneuvered towards the back of the room.

“Um, just in general, or recently?” She seemed a bit uncertain how to answer.

_Oh boy, these two had a history._

“In general, I suppose,” Ford braced himself for a long winded answer.

“Well, let’s just say he didn’t take my romantic rejection very well. Tried to cut out my brother’s tongue with a pair of lamb sheers. How crazy was it that he just had those lying around?”

Ford shuddered a bit. Considering Gideon’s history and those he often dealt with, he found this in no way surprising.

“But then I smashed his stupid amulet thing, and he left us alone for a while.”

Ford breathed a sigh of relief at the knowledge that the little man was no longer in possession of the amulet, as it would make dealing with him much easier. Psychic powers were no joke, and it was his own carelessness in his research that had allowed Gideon to get his hands on such a device.

Mabel continued to ramble on, “so then we find out that he’s working with this Bill guy-”

Ford stopped abruptly, turning to face Mabel fully.

“Bill? Bill Cipher?” He asked, a bit distraught. Mabel looked at him quizzically.

“Um, yeah, I don’t know if he had a last name or anything…”

Ford sighed in frustration. He hated having to do this, but it was the only way to know for sure if she had dealt with the demon. He formed a triangle with the first finger and thumb of his hands, lifting them up to his eye.

Mabel gasped.

“You know the triangle guy?” Her tone was more shocked than anything; not many people bought into the whole “dream demon” thing. Ford looked at her sternly, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“Mabel, the fact that you know about Bill is gravely serious. If Gideon is truly working with him, I need to find out why.”

“How?” She looked at him doubtfully.

Ford eyed the back of the room.

“Come, quickly.” He glanced around to be sure they weren’t being watched, and hurried to the door Gideon’s thug had entered. He began to inspect the security console.

“Listen closely: I’m going in there to get information on whatever Gideon is planning with Bill. I need you to stand watch and alert me if anyone is coming.” From his jacket he produced a black wrist band, handing it to Mabel.

Taking it in her hands, she inspected it suspiciously. Ford pointed to a small button in the center.

“If there’s any trouble, this button will sound an alarm in my earpiece. But try and buy me as much time as possible before sounding it.” Ford awaited a response, but discovered the girl to be staring at his hand, clearly just now taking notice of his benign birth defect.

He quickly pulled his hand away. He may have gotten used to the staring, but it didn’t mean he particularly enjoyed it. To his surprise, Mabel broke into a wide grin.

“Six fingers? That’s amazing!” She quickly wrapped the band around her wrist, giving him a thumbs up. Ford smiled, returning the gesture.

“Once I get what I need, I’ll try to track down your brother. When I’ve found him, I’ll alert you with this,” he tapped something on his wristwatch, sending a vibration through Mabel’s bracelet, much to her clear surprise.

“And then what?” She asked excitedly.

Ford chuckled.

“And then I suppose we run for our lives.” Mabel once again flashed him a toothy grin.

“Sounds like a plan to me!”

Reaching into his jacket once more, Ford pulled out a grappling hook, holding it out to a wide-eyed Mabel. It was the only weapon he had on him that he never really could get a handle on, but he knew it to be effective in the right hands. Maybe she could make use of it in a pinch.

She grabbed the hook with a sparkle in her eyes, clearly excited by the prospect.

Ford turned his attention to the security panel, placing his hands behind his back contemplatively, assessing the measures it would take to bypass. He knew a brief call to Fiddleford would get him in in seconds, but hacking it open would leave them much more open to detection.

Deep in his thoughts, he barely noticed as Mabel tapped his arm.

“Ahem,” as he turned she produced a key card from her pocket, smiling proudly. Ford returned the smile, ecstatic.

“Heh, good work,” He snatched it from her hands, keying the door open with a beep. He prepared to rush in, stopping short as a hand grabbed his shoulder.

“Wait!” Mabel looked at him apologetically. “I didn’t even get your name!”

Up to this point, Ford had made a point of not revealing his identity to anyone in the casino. Miraculously, this girl had trusted him nonetheless. But he couldn’t risk the compromise at this point. He needed her to trust him once more.

“When we’re out of here, I’ll tell you,” he looked at her apologetically. The girl furrowed her brow, clearly hurt. Ford put a hand on her shoulder.

“Mabel, I need you to trust me. I’m going to help your brother.”

She looked back at him, resignation and understanding setting in. She resumed her post, keeping her hand near her grappling hook.

“Better hurry,  _Sixer_.”

Ford locked eyes with the girl for a moment, a silent thank you spoken between them, before hurrying through the door, shutting himself in.

***

The corridor was much darker than he had been expecting. Ford knew Gideon to be one for atmosphere, but this was ridiculous. He peered through his glasses, silently treading down the hall, gun drawn. He listened closely for sounds of activity, but thus far, none of the rooms he passed appeared to be occupied.

 _Odd that things are so quiet back here_ , Ford pondered. His personal dealings with Gideon were limited, but he knew his henchmen to be a rowdy bunch, to say the least. It just  _shouldn’t_  have been as quiet as it was.

He approached one of the closed doors. Upon inspection, Ford realized it was solid steel, a small glass panel the only window into the dark room. By the handle was a code-operated lock. It hit Ford like a semi-truck: this was a prison.

 _Well this is going to make things infinitely more complicated_ , he huffed to himself. If Mabel’s brother was in one of those rooms –  _cells_ , he corrected himself – then saving him from Gideon would prove a much more difficult task than previously anticipated. Near impossible, if he was to evade detection.

 _No_ , he admonished himself,  _that girl trusted you. Prove that she was right to do so._  He would rescue the young man from whatever predicament he had gotten himself into, but first he needed to get what he originally came for.

A small glint of light caught his eye down the hall, a door cracked open. Careful not to make a sound, he rushed over, peering through the slightly open door.

A gang of ruffians, all shapes and sizes, but all undeniably dangerous, were huddled around a table, seemingly chatting pleasantly despite their demeanor. Ford jumped back as one cried out, presuming he had been detected.

To his surprise, the singular shout evolved into a unison chant about… modern art? Ford once again leaned in close, able to afford a look at the table as the thugs rose, pumping their fists in the air as they chanted. Were they… finger painting???

Ford simply backed away, unsure what to make of the scene unfolding before him.

This time it was a sound that had caught his attention. The sound of clanking, crashing, down at the very end of the hall, accompanied by a voice that could only be described as obnoxiously southern.

Ford pressed his back against the wall as he listened through the closed door, keeping an eye out for guards. He focused his attention on the muffled shouts coming from behind the door.

“Why do you always gotta get in my way?!?” Despite the fogginess provided by the thick door, Ford instantly recognized the voice of Gideon Gleeful, in all it’s obnoxious, childlike glory.

“First, you turn my precious peach dumplin’ against me, and now you’re rollin’ up like you own the place, tellin’ me how to do my business! Do you even know who you’re dealin’ with?!?”

Ford winced as a crash resounded through the door, but was surprised to not hear the telltale sounds of human contact. Gideon was violent and outright abusive of those who didn’t agree with him; why was he only trying to intimidate this person and not actually hurt them?

“Look man,” a recently familiar voice cracked slightly, “you  _know_  she’s not interested! Move on, okay?” The kid had nerve, Ford gave him that, but he feared that he didn’t truly understand the person he was dealing with.

“Besides, you know this has nothing to do with that!” The voice spoke up again, a bit more confident. “This has everything to do with Bill! He’s using you, you have to know that! Are you really gonna be his puppet-”

Ford grimaced as an obnoxious cackle filled the air.

“Puppet? Oh my, look who’s callin’ who a puppet! Ga ha ha ha! Listen here, boy.  _I_  contacted Bill, we’re partners! I help him some, he helps me some.”

 _Partners_. That terminology hit a little too close to home.

“And I know Bill is lookin’ for ya, boy,” Gideon continued, dark malice growing in his voice. “When he finds out I got ya, he’ll pay me handsomely.”

_Not if I have anything to say about it, you little-_

Ford was jolted out of their conversation as a hand roughly grabbed him by his sweater collar. In a flash of bright lights, the door swung open and he felt himself thrown on the ground.

“Well, well,” Gideon cooed, “speakin’ of puppets.” Ford pushed himself off the ground to meet the little psycho, who had situated the chair in his office to be at eye level with his larger thugs.

Impossibly poofy white hair, a pig nose, and still, unbelievably, the size of a child despite being a full-grown adult, Gideon sat above Ford and the young man, relishing in his power over the situation.

“Why, Stanford! Who would’ve thought I’d be so lucky today! Bill’s gonna be ecstatic when he finds out I got two of his favorite people right here.” Gideon snapped, “Ghost Eyes!”

Sensing the henchman’s movements, Ford quickly ducked away, avoiding what would have been a nasty blow to the head. As Ghost Eyes lumbered forward, Ford grabbed him by the arm, twisting it behind his back. Combined with his already forward momentum, was enough to send the man flat on his face with a thud.

“My henchangel!” Gideon cried. Ford payed him no mind, grabbing the young man by the arm and sprinting out the door.

“Hurry! We need to get out of here before-” Ford stopped in his tracks, confronted by the gang of thugs from the room before.

“Oh, we’re doomed,” the man’s voice cracked behind him. Ford extended a protective arm in front of him, drawing his pistol.

“Stay behind me,” he warned. The young man nodded in affirmation, doing nothing to hide his nerves.

For a brief moment, the two parties stood in a silent standoff. Their odds didn’t look good. Ford, armed to the teeth, could take care of himself well enough, but against half a dozen of Gideon’s thugs and the young man as practical dead weight, he didn’t stand much of a chance.

Weighing his options, Ford considered the prospect of surrender. He knew himself to be of immense value to Cipher; perhaps if he gave himself up they would let the young man go.

 _No_ , he scolded himself. Years ago he would have made that decision in a heartbeat, but now? Now he had a family, a husband and son who loved him. He had prepared himself to meet Bill in the field, but as a prisoner, the likelihood of him ever returning to his family was close to zero.

And Bill always made bad deals. Even if he and Gideon allowed the young man to go free, it would only be a matter of time before he found himself back in Bill's clutches, awaiting whatever fate the demon had in store.

He didn’t know if he could make it, but if those thugs wanted to take him to Bill, they would have to drag him kicking and screaming.

Ford was done making deals; he had made up his mind to fight.

“AURRGH!” The standoff was broken as one of the henchman lunged forward, prompting Ford to fire two shots into his chest, rushing forward as the thug was immobilized. He could feel the young man hot on his heels, panting in panic.  
He ducked around, avoiding strikes as best he could, making his way down the hall. Seeing the door within reach, he grabbed the young man by the wrist, pulling him along with him.

In an instant, he felt a brute force striking him from the side, the air leaving his lungs as he collided with one of the steel doors. Sore and disoriented, he tried to lift himself off the floor, but he found himself only able to lift his head. Unsurprisingly, his cracked glasses had come off from the impact, leaving his already hazy vision severely blurred. He couldn’t get away.

“Run!” He rasped, hoping the young man could hear him over the commotion. “Get away!”

Ford felt his head hit the floor as his vision faded completely.


	2. No More Colombian Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan gets thrown for a loop when he discovers what his twin's been up to...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter rises, courtesy of my stubborn reclusiveness and crippling procrastination! Seriously, though, hope y'all enjoy!

Stanley Pines hadn’t expected the escape from his cell to be such a breeze. As he had kept watch for the guards, he had become almost certain that Jorge or Rico would rat him out. He had tried his best to stay on his cellmates’ good sides, keeping up a cheerful demeanor, but he knew enough Spanish to get how much they hated him.

Maybe that’s why they _hadn’t_ sold Stan out. If the guards caught him, he would have been stuck back in the cell with them. They didn’t care what happened to him, as long as he was out of their hair. It made sense; Stan was used to people wanting to get rid of him.

 _Heh, guess it’s finally workin’ in my favor_ , he smiled to himself, trying to ignore the sadness that came with that sentiment.

Digging a hole big enough for him to escape through had been an ordeal, and hiding it was a hassle, to say the least. But when you’ve chewed your way out of the trunk of a car, tasks like this seemed a lot more feasible.

But he wasn’t out of this yet. He may have escaped his cell, but making it across the prison compound was a different story entirely. Normally a man who preferred to jump in and wing it, Stan found himself waiting in the dark, watching the guards as they made their rounds, timing their movements in his head.

In a sense, he was pulling a Stanford.

Stan sighed quietly at the thought of his twin, pulling from his pocket the postcard he had recently received. How it had somehow managed to find him all the way in Colombia was well beyond him, but the warden had delivered the postcard to his cell, in near perfect condition.

The postcard was from somewhere in Oregon, a small town called Gravity Falls. Although addressed formally, as per necessity, on the back Stan had found only a simple message: PLEASE COME.

It was signed, simply, “Ford”.

Stan had no idea what his twin was up to, why he would even want to see him after – jeez, what had it been, twelve years – or how a postcard that was so clearly an invitation even made it to his prison cell. But he knew one thing: he was desperate, and judging from the way Ford had written his message, so was he.

Ford needed him. This was their second chance. Stan had decided that there would be no more Colombian nights; he was going to escape, or die trying.

Satisfied with his analysis of the guards’ pattern, he stuffed the postcard back in his pocket.

_Here we go._

He treaded as silently as he could, pausing every few moments to take stock of his surroundings. Nooks, crevices, anything that could provide cover should a guard come around. Unfortunately for him, the only path out he could figure was as out in the open as it got.

Stan considered himself sweet talker, but even he knew justifying his presence in the courtyard at – what was it, 2 AM – to a prison guard was a long shot. Not impossible, but highly unlikely.

 _Well, no turning back now_ , he resolved, making a beeline for the fence. He jumped up, grabbing the wire in his hands. Stan winced at the crinkling and clanking his ascent was causing the fence to make.

 _C’mon, just a little farther…_ He hissed with pain as the barbed wire atop the enclosure dug into his skin.

 _Yeah, that’s gonna leave a mark_ , he grimaced, plummeting down the other side. _Just add it to the others_.

Stan clutched his side, catching his breath for a moment. Now, if he could just get to the impound lot...

 _Those bastards had better not have done anything with my car_ , he almost grumbled out loud as he made away from the prison grounds.

After getting out of that hell hole, Stan was sure that breaking into the impound lot and taking the _El Diablo_ would be a cinch. Then he would be on his merry way to… what was that town’s name again?

 _FLASH_. Stan stopped in his tracks as a blinding light enveloped him from above.

 _CHUFF CHUFF CHUFF CHUFF…_ A deafening whirr pounded in his ears, and powerful gusts tossed his unkempt mane every which way.

Shielding his eyes, Stan jerked his head up in the direction of the sound, but could only see the blinding white past his own arm.

And then, nothing.

* * *

 

 _Thump_.

Stan started out of his sleep, his back and neck tightening painfully from an impact to his seat.

 _Ow, my neck…_ he brought his hand up, only to feel an unexpected tug at his wrists. Stan felt his stomach clench as his eyes shot open.

It was much brighter than he had been expecting; as he lifted his hands to shield his eyes, he saw just what he had feared: handcuffs.

The rest was less expected.

He was in the backseat of a car, a barrier of chain link fence separating him from the driver, a chubby, dark skinned man (with a bushy mustache, from what Stan could see in the rearview mirror), and his companion, painfully pale and gangly, with ears far too big for his head. Both were wearing, what appeared to Stan to be, State Trooper hats.

 _What the hell? Where…_ Stan glanced out the window; the previously blinding light now filtered through impossibly tall pines, and the only road he could see was the shifty, unkempt asphalt they were currently treading.

He definitely wasn’t anywhere near that God-awful prison, that was for sure.

Stan felt dread collecting in the pit of his stomach. Maybe that wasn’t a good thing. This car was… shifty, to say the least, and he didn’t find being handcuffed in a back country road around evening very comforting. Panic began to bubble up. It was _terrifying_.

“Hey, you stooges,” Stan managed to bark at the men up front, “where are ya takin’ me?”

“Oh,” the driver didn’t even bother to lift his head. “Looks like _city boy’s_ finally up.” The lanky one snickered. “How’s he lookin’, Durland?” The passenger turned around, an investigative look in his eye.

“Yup! Still ugly!” He declared, much louder than was necessary.

“Son, that mullet is _not_ doing you any favors,” the driver snorted. Stan bared his teeth at the passenger.

“Hey, back off! You wanna tell me what’s going on?”

“Take it easy, city boy,” the driver glanced up in the mirror through his shades, “’less you want Durland to go hog-wild on you again.” Durland held up a taser, a devilish gleam in his eye.

“ _Zap, zap!_ ” He said gleefully, showing off his awful teeth. Stan grimaced, sitting back in his seat.

“See Durland, what’d I tell you ‘bout that city slicker attitude? You lend a city boy a helping hand, and all you get in return is ungratefulness and suspicious questions.”

 _Helping hand? You call_ this _a helping –_ at that moment, it occurred to Stan that he was no longer in his prison jumpsuit; he was in his own clothes! And by some miracle, the faded white t-shirt, blue jeans, and red jacket were no longer smelly and stained as they had been when he was arrested.

They had been washed – _really_ washed – for the first time in weeks. And he had a hard time complaining about the softness of the freshly washed shirt and the pleasant scent of fabric softener that wafted up to his nose. Maybe these guys weren’t so –

 _No_. Stan snapped back to reality. He was in _handcuffs_ , in the back of a shifty state trooper car, on a country road in the middle of nowhere, _at night_. And Stan didn’t even _want_ to think about how they had managed to get him out of his jumpsuit and into his own clothes while he was unconscious.

 _No. Everything about this is wrong_.

“Where are we going?” Stan managed to creak after a long moment of uncomfortable silence.

“You really haven’t figured it out yet, city boy?” The driver chuckled. “Check your pocket.”

Confused, Stan fumbled uselessly in his handcuffs, somehow managing to wedge his hand in his jacket pocket. His eyes widened as he felt something crinkle.

Stan ripped the postcard out of his pocket, amazed that it had made the trip. He reread the message over and over.

 _PLEASE COME_.

A realization hit Stan like a semi-truck.

“You,” Stan’s voice cracked just a bit, “you’re takin’ me to him?” The driver looked back at him through the rearview mirror.

“Hold onto your seat, city boy.” Stan looked up at the driver.

“We’re goin’ to Gravity Falls.”

Stan didn’t press. He didn’t question why on earth some hick state troopers had found him all the way in Colombia and decided to help him find his twin. All he knew was that he was getting where he needed to go.

He was going to see Ford for the first time in twelve years. Stan’s stomach clenched as he came fully to terms with the realization. He tried to push down the combination of anger and guilt that had built up whenever he thought about his twin.

Guilt about the science fair project. Anger about getting thrown out. Guilt from being too chicken to ever call Ford, despite the knowledge that he was doing well and even having his phone number. But anger from Ford never once trying to check in with him during the twelve years Stan spent exiled from his family.

But somehow, getting that postcard sparked something in him. Seeing Ford’s own handwriting for the first time in ages, and the desperation of the message, it forced Stan to bury all those emotions.

It didn’t matter what Stan had done. Or what Ford _hadn’t_. His twin needed him for once, and Stan wasn’t going to let him down.

Stan was determined to make things right. He traced over Ford’s name with his thumb.

_I’m comin’, Sixer._

* * *

 

It was hours before they reached any sign of civilization.

And, upon laying eyes on the sleepy town for the first time, Stan wasn’t even sure he would call it that.

“Jeez,” Stan grumbled, “I didn’t even know people lived this far out.” He looked all around as they rolled into town, taking in the surroundings of the dormant town. There was a dilapidated old diner, which appeared to be the only restaurant in town; a tiny library among various main street storefronts; a small, but respectably kept cemetery (maybe it was the low light, but Stan swore he saw someone moving near the headstones).

And finally, as they moved towards the center of town, they passed the city dump. Stan would have paid it no mind, that is, if it weren’t for the eerie blue light peeking out from under piles of scrap metal, flickering ominously every few seconds. Stan eyed the dump nervously.

“Hey, uh,” Stan gestured clumsily with his cuffed hands, “is that normal?”

The driver and his passenger simply shrugged.

“Best to leave the ol’ kook to his own.” The driver stated simply.

“Ol’ kook? What even-”

“You’ll know soon enough.”

Stan felt himself sweat a bit as he pursed his lips. He was getting tired of cryptic answers, and even more sick of these stupid handcuffs. But he didn’t think it was a good idea to press a couple of troopers who apparently had multiple Tasers in their arsenal. Stan remained silent for a moment as they pulled into the town center.

“Sure is quiet…” he mumbled.

“Heh. That’s what you think.” Stan shot the driver a questioning look.

“It may not look like it, but us Fallers do our best work at night,” he stated proudly as he fiddled with something on the dash.

“How-”

Stan was silenced as a deep rumble began to shake the car. He stared in stunned, terrified silence as the asphalt around them began to shift and move away, leaving them on a suspended platform, slowly making its way into the earth.

 _Just what have you gotten yourself into?!?_ He looked up, mouth agape as the ceiling (or road?) closed above them.

Stan was expecting pitch darkness; instead, he was greeted by bright white lights, illuminating an open underground space, bustling with activity as people of all shapes and sizes filtered through, some casually in conversation, and others in a hurry as if they had somewhere important to be.

They seemingly took no notice of the car that had lowered itself into the vast room, simply granting it some space as its platform lodged into the center of the room.

Stan sat in stunned silence, mouth still wide open from the shock.

“I-I,” he stammered, “I don’t even know how to respond to this.”

The driver chuckled, having already left the car. He approached the back door.

“Well, you can start by gettin’ out,” he unlocked Stan’s handcuffs as he stepped out the door, dumbfounded by the plethora of sounds and sights around him.

 _So this is where you’ve been_ …

“What is this place?” He asked as he gawked at some fancy machinery mounted on the walls.

“This,” the driver replied, “is the _real_ Gravity Falls. The Supernatural Investigation Agency.”

“What even…” Stan couldn’t even make words. He was truly dumbfounded. Ford always had a thing for Sci-Fi weirdness, but this was just… _too_ weird.

“Look, you probably got a lot of questions.” Stan turned to face the driver, looking down slightly to compensate for his stout build. “But first thing’s first; Director Cutebiker needs to have a word with you.”

 _Director who- Oh._ Oh _. Their leader. Duh. Seriously, though, what kind of name is that?_

Stan hurriedly followed the driver out of the open space, suddenly aware of all the people who had stopped to stare, some pointing and whispering to their companions. His face flushed at the thought of them comparing him to his brother, and he felt the bitterness rise up again.

 _No, Stan, stop it. We’re starting over_ , he reassured himself.

 _Starting over_.

* * *

 

Stan didn’t know _exactly_ what to expect from the leader of some super-secret agency. Maybe some ominous, imposing guy with an eyepatch or something. Or some refined older lady with a stern, but reasonable gaze.

What Stan _wasn’t_ expecting was this: a slender man in a trucker hat, wearing V-neck shirt under a suit jacket, denim jeans, and cowboy boots. And topping it all off was a bushy little mustache and effeminate eyelashes that were sending him _very_ mixed messages.

“You must be Stanley!” The Director’s eyes lit up as he flashed a big smile from behind his desk.

“Uh, yeah,” Stan shifted uncomfortably, “just call me Stan, Director…”

“Aw, call me Tyler,” the Director waved his hands dismissively.

“Uh, okay, Tyler,” Stan sighed, “you wanna tell me what’s going on?”

“Listen, Stan,” Tyler started, “it wasn’t our plan to bring you in like this, but we… we’ve got a bit of a desperate situation.” His expression turned a bit more serious.

“You see, about 72 hours ago we lost contact with one of our intelligence officers.” A screen behind the Director lit up to reveal a file with a familiar, bespectacled face attached to it, and the label “MIA” plastered across it.

“Agent Stanford Pines was sent on a mission to gather intelligence on the Cipher Organization, an international terrorist group.”

Stan was reeling internally. _Agent?_ He thought his brother was a doctor, a physicist or some nonsense like that. _What had Ford been doing all those years?_

“But we haven’t heard from him since he went to spy on one of the organization’s suspected allies, Gideon Gleeful.”

 _Now why does that name sound famil-_ Another screen lit up, showing a series of images of a stubby young man in a baby blue suit. Stan recognized him immediately.

 _Oh, it’s that phony TV psychic_.

“And now,” Tyler said solemnly, “we’re beginning to fear the worst.”

“You think he’s-” Stan paled at the implication. Had he come all this way for a _corpse_?

“What? Oh!” the Director realized how he had sounded. “Oh, heavens no, we’re sure he’s alive. Your brother is worth a lot more to our enemies than you might think, Stan. What, with that brain of his.” Tyler tapped his skull to illustrate his point.

Stan breathed a sigh of relief.

“So, then, whaddya want me for?” He wanted to help in any way he could, but this? This was far out of Stan’s area of expertise.

“Stan, this agency’s made a lot of mistakes in its day, but perhaps one of our biggest was not granting our agent the support he requested on this mission.” Stan raised his eyebrows. “It wasn’t his decision to conduct the mission solo; he specifically asked for you.”

Stan’s eyes widened. _The postcard_.

“We denied his request. And now I’m afraid we’ve lost a very valuable agent to a very formidable foe.” Tyler cast his eyes downwards. “Stanley, I don’t know what Stanford sees in you. But we’ve run out of options.” The Director sighed, looking back up at Stan.

“We need you to track him down and bring him back.”

Stan stood in stunned silence, trying to process the message he just heard.

_Track him down? These guys know I’m not a special agent or anything, right? How am I even supposed to-_

Stan stopped his racing mind as his eyes settled again on Ford’s file photo. His heart sank in his chest at the sight of his twin.

 _He needs your help, Stan. He asked for you. Don’t let him down._ Stan sighed to himself.

“Alright.” Tyler practically squeed.

“But, ya know I’m not like a special agent or anything, right? Like, I don’t even know where to start with this stuff.” Stan rubbed his neck sheepishly.

“You’re a con-man, aren’t you?” Stan raised his eyebrows at the question.

“Yeah…” _Have they been… Watching me?_

“That’s all being a spy is, really. The fancy stuff can be taught. Being a charming liar can’t,” Tyler winked.

“We can start training tomorrow. But for now, you should probably head over to the lab; your brother left behind some of his notes and research on Cipher.”

 _Well, at least it’ll give me a place to start_.

“F should be waiting there for you.”

_F? Who the heck is F?_

* * *

 

It wasn’t too far a walk to the lab from Director Tyler’s office. As he followed closely behind the driver (Blubs, as he had come to know), Stan found he was still reeling from his discovery.

 _It’s okay, Stan, you can do this,_ he told himself.

He snorted, realizing how ridiculous this all seemed.

 _It’s not like you just found out your nerdy brother’s part of some crazy spy cult that’s apparently been watching you your whole life. It’s not_ that _weird._

Stan took a deep breath as Blubs unlocked the door to the lab.

_Just play it cool._

With a _swoosh_ , the door came open, revealing a pristine room, lined with racks stacked to the brim with various gadgets and tools, and raised counters lining the walls and scattered through the open space.

In the far corner of the room, one counter was outfitted as a desk, littered with picture frames, stacks of open and closed books, and loose leaf paper. Curiously, a jar was wedged in the corner near the desk.

The lab was empty, save for the small figure curled up in the desk chair, his pronounced nose buried in a comic book. Stan guessed the kid to be about nine or ten years old, but couldn’t make out much more about him, given his eyes were covered by a cap and a mess of dark brown bangs.

“Tate?” Blubs called out to the kid. “What are you doing here all alone?”

“Dad had some tests to do or something,” he said, not bothering to look up from his comics. “Said he’d be back soon.

Blubs muttered something incomprehensible.

“Tate, where is he?”

“Machine bay, I think,” Tate shrugged, lifting his head from his reading. “Why, what’s going-”

He froze as he laid eyes on Stan, standing uselessly by the doorway. Given his slack-jawed expression, Stan could guess pretty well what was going through the kid’s head.

“W-who…?” Tate stammered.

“Durland, would you stay with him please?” Blubs cut the kid off, gesturing for Stan to follow him out the door.

Stan couldn’t help but wonder how many people Ford had told about his twin as he followed Blubs to the machine bay.

As the two men approached a wall of large, glass panels, Stan felt something eerily familiar about the space. He jumped a little as a blue light unexpectedly flickered on and off with a soft electric buzz.

 _Of course!_ It came to Stan immediately. They must’ve been underneath the garbage dump.

The two hadn’t even made it to the imposing windows before Stan felt the ground shake.

 _BOOM._ A roar resounded through the entire space, shaking the floor and throwing Stan for a loop. He stumbled to the windows to peek inside, only to find them clouded with grey smoke.

“SWEET SARSAPARILLA!” A man’s voice rang out as a set of doors swooshed open, letting a mess of smoke into the room. Through the smog, Stan could make out a lanky figure, hacking and coughing through all the smoke.

He slammed the doors behind him, trying to fan the smoke away. As the smog cleared, Stan could see more clearly the man, who was taking off his welding mask in a coughing fit.

Stan was surprised the mask had even fit over his face, given the almost comic proportion of his nose. His slight figure was framed by a well-worn lab coat, supplemented by bright yellow hazmat gloves. Atop his head was a mop of sandy blond hair.

“You crazy ol’ kook!” Stan startled backwards at Blubs’ outburst. The man seemingly paid him no mind as he dusted himself off.

“Oh, is that what they’re callin’ me now?” He sniffed.

“What do you think you’re doing? You can’t just leave your kid in the lab while you work on your stupid machines!” The man shot Blubs an irritated look.

“Well, normally _someone’s_ around to help keep an eye on him,” the man’s voice twanged with a slight southern accent, “but seein’ as how you boys ain’t managed to find hide nor hair of him, I’m a bit lacking in the childcare department.” The man adjusted the small, round frames resting on his nose.

“’Sides, Tate knows how to handle himself in a laboratory. I’d be more worried about someone like Durland wandering ‘round in there, with all them gadgets,” he snorted.

Blubs stiffened in realization.

“I, uh,” he stammered, “I gotta go take care of something.” Blubs raced off towards the lab, leaving Stan alone with the lanky stranger.

“I swear, those two couldn’t pour water from a boot,” he muttered, wiping his spectacles on his coat. He turned to Stan, peering at him with bright blue eyes as he restored his glasses to their proper place.

“But they managed to bring you here, I s’pose, and for that I’m grateful, Stanley,” he sighed, freeing himself of his bulky gloves.

Stan eyed the man suspiciously, still dumbfounded by the exchange he had just witnessed.

“Are… Are you F?” The man flashed a small smile.

“Fiddleford Hadron McGucket, at your service,” he extended a hand to Stan.

“I’m your brother’s partner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the perspective shift, cuz we're gonna be seeing a lot of it for the rest of the story!  
> I'm gonna try to keep updates regular, but no promises. Being an animation student is a big time commitment :P.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so it's my first time writing a GF fic so hopefully I'm getting the character voices alright :/.  
> Got any suggestions? Improvements? Show some love in the comments!  
> As Soos would say, "be cool, dudes."


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